


I'll Never Love This Way Again

by NaroMoreau



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale is Bad at Feelings (Good Omens), Aziraphale with an iPhone is a menace upon this land, Can u guys pls just talk, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley is Bad at Feelings (Good Omens), Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), First Kiss, First Time, Idiots, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), Jealous Aziraphale (Good Omens), Jealous Crowley (Good Omens), Lack of Communication, Love Confessions, M/M, Miscommunication, Mutual Pining, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Oral Sex, Pining, Possessive Aziraphale (Good Omens), South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), Strong Aziraphale (Good Omens), Stronkziraphale, idiots the both of them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-09
Updated: 2020-07-09
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:54:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25157332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NaroMoreau/pseuds/NaroMoreau
Summary: Crowley and Aziraphale finally move to South Downs leaving every hurdle behind. When something shifts between them Crowley finds himself wondering, where everything went wrong?
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 38
Kudos: 470
Collections: Ineffable First Times, Top Aziraphale Recs





	I'll Never Love This Way Again

Crowley has been trying, _fucking Hell he'd tried,_ but right now he feels as if chewing on misery, rough as gravel between his teeth. Just when a month ago a bright swell of warm hope had started to bloom in his gut. 

South Downs is verdant and beautiful as a postcard. Soft hills where the sun sets, harvest moons and balmy breezes pouring from the bay windows at night. It's a home. Their _Home_.

And almost instantly Crowley is slapped in the face by the overwhelming, almost physical realization he's now sharing a place with Aziraphale, the ache of millenia of unsaid words chafing Crowley's heart raw. Trepidation braided with gut clenching longing. Every inch of space between them thrumming under Crowley's skin.

He bides his time for the unthinkable to happen. And to be honest with himself, he doesn't even know quite clearly what he's really expecting. A reaching hand lingering on his face after a meal, a loving gesture during a lazy breakfast, perhaps a word uttered in the darkest part of a chilly night. Yet it's pointless. 

Aziraphale single handedly takes care of showing him with his silence, that any sort of change in the flux of their relationship is definitely not to be expected. Oh, he cares for Crowley, alright, and that seems like enough. It's fine, Crowley keeps saying to himself. _It is_. He can love for the both of them, impervious to the fatigue of millennia giving him barely enough in return. It's clear the angel isn't build to love in the same desperate, world-shattering, knee-weakening way Crowley does, and that's fine too. 

But then the silence stretches and it promptly snaps in painful splinters burrowing under Crowley’s skin. Aziraphale’s incredibly fidgety and constantly restless whenever they are together in a room. Dissapearing sometimes in the evenings, to where? Crowley doesn't know. 

A broken plate comes first. Crowley absentmindedly reaches for a cup one morning while browsing his cellphone, inadvertently brushing Aziraphale's hand extended in the same direction. The angel swiftly pulls away knocking a plate over, that shatters against the floor. And as if trapped on a loop, the scene keeps repeating itself whenever their bodies crash in error. Mugs, books, plates and even the kettle end up smashed against the hardwood floors, carrying a bit of Crowley's heart every time in their downfall.

And Crowley can get a hint. 

It doesn't mean he doesn't feel as if his insides are been pulled and twisted, his heart beating to stillness in his chest, everytime he spots the crinkles of… _is it regret_? in Aziraphale's face when his eyes land on Crowley. Gone are the nights spend amidst chatter and wine, or in a companionable silent. Crowley makes sure of that, unable to resist Aziraphale's completely off putting behaviour for a second more than necessary. 

It all comes crashing down in one of their joined visits down to town.

Grocery shopping turns into a noon visit to a café where Aziraphale insists to try the scones. Crowley indulges him, because despite the string of oddities he still loves Aziraphale something fierce. Crowley tries to relax, focusing in the smooth flow of their chatter as if the people around them worked as some kind of situation buffers.

"You really don't fancy a thing?," Aziraphale asks taking sips from his cup.

"Nah, I'm good. Just the coffee."

"See, Crowley, I've been meaning to ask you--"

Aziraphale is cut short by a stranger's voice; chirpy and sunny and slightly haughty.

"Oh, how nice! Are you the ones who took that quaint, lovely cottage in Devil's Dyke?"

It's a woman with grey hair and a tweed skirt from the past century, who seems delighted by the novelty.

Crowley's about to frown at the interruption when Aziraphale speaks.

"Hello," he says casting that bright smile that always makes Crowley's stomach flutter. "Yes, yes we are. I'm Aziraphale Fell and this fellow right here is--" There's an almost imperceptible pause in which Aziraphale sneaks a nervous glance at Crowley, that the demon wishes not to have noticed, " this is my good _friend,_ Anthony Crowley." 

It's more than what Crowley could've expected in past years. Progress, he tells himself. Yet the lilt dancing on the word when Aziraphale utters it makes his skin itch.

The lady exchanges pleasantries with Aziraphale, inviting them both to attend to their local church - to which Crowley harrumphs audibly -, before heading out.

Silence spreads thick around them and Crowley considers whether to say something to cut through it. 

"We _are_ friends, aren't we?" Aziraphale asks quietly.

Behind his spectacles Crowley's eyes go wide. 

"Yeah, yeah, of course we are-- Friends, that is-- Yup."

Aziraphale gives a little smile and resumes his meal. 

Six thousand years of conditioning can scramble everyone's confidence, Crowley thinks, but the perspective of Aziraphale needing a confirmation of something he should've felt in his bones, doesn't make Crowley happy in the slightest. 

Isn't it clear for the angel Crowley can let himself being ripped apart if Aziraphale does so much as ask? 

He gulps a sigh and unable to stand the wavelength of strained uncertainty he stands up. 

"I'll meet you at the car. Gotta buy a thing," he lies walking to the door without looking back, hearing Aziraphale's stuttering acquiesce.

Once outside his shoulders sag, muscles answering to his plea to relax. Spotting a store he strides to buy a pack of cigarettes and then slouches over the hull of the Bentley waiting for the angel to finish. 

He watches the beloved figure of Aziraphale, morose expression pulling at Crowley's heartstrings, leaving the café and preparing to cross the street when a dark haired man stops him with a gentle touch on the arm. And then Aziraphale smiles, _he smiles_ , and exchanges some words as if they were more than acquaintances. A tingle of something bitter lodges in Crowley's throat and he has to sink a fang in the tender flesh of his lip to swat at the impulse to snarl. 

Crowley takes a deep, cool breath, the fresh air tumbling any ill ideas of his head. It's fine. Totally fine. Aziraphale's probably being target of the natural curiosity of the rural areas of England regarding newcomers. 

And then Aziraphale pulls a brand new iPhone of his pocket and types something as the man does the same. It's _wrong_. Unnatural. Aziraphale isn't supposed to catch up with that technology but in a hundred years or so. It had taken fifty bloody years to Crowley to even introduce the concept of a landline to Aziraphale and another twenty to convince him to use it. 

Crowley's slitted pupils narrow even more behind his sunglasses. 

Just then Aziraphale waves cheerily and strolls to Crowley.

"Who was the bloke?" Crowley asks, before being able to steel himself.

"Oh, that's Charles." Aziraphale's face still holds traces of a sincere smile and Crowley's fingernails sink in the black lacquered roof of the Bentley. "He's a friend."

Which, again, is completely fine, Crowley drones to himself. Aziraphale's entitled to have friends. It doesn't matter it had taken Crowley six fucking millenia to earn that title after defying pain, Satan and the dreaded void of non existence itself for him. Some human can know Aziraphale for a day and being granted the favor of his friendship. 

It is fine. 

Crowley grits his teeth all the way home.

* * *

Nights are usually comfortable in the cottage. The weather knows better than to pull to extremes. Aziraphale’s cooking and Crowley is lazily sitting on the kitchen island, chin propped on a hand, browsing through Twitter and smirking at badly made memes. It’s one of those nights when everything feels slightly less tense. 

“Are you hungry, dear?” Aziraphale asks, and Crowley manages not to flinch at the moniker that rubs him just where it’s sore. 

“Nah, but I can always use something to settle the wine.”

“Oh, wine!” Aziraphale takes off his mittens and settles them on the counter. “That reminds me we still have a few bottles of Côte de Nuits. I’ll fetch one… and when I get back, I'd like to have a word with you."

Aziraphale goes down to the wine cellar and Crowley is left with his thoughts which are not being as good lads as they should. _Have a word_? His leg channels his nervousness, tapping on the stool. 

The chords of _Spread a Little Happiness_ ring in the kitchen, and Crowley sees Aziraphale's phone vibrating over the counter. 

"Oi! Aziraphale!" Crowley shouts. 

The call stretches a bit before Crowley leans to peer at the screen. It stops right when he's over it but before he can retreat, a message comes through. Sender reads as Charles.

_"Hi, Aziraphale. I was calling you to let you know everyone loved your joke at the conference! I was wondering perhaps you'd want to go to have dinner on friday like last time? You've been nothing but an absolute sweetheart."_

_Like last time. An absolute sweetheart._

Crowley hisses, a sound rent from his throat unbidden. His teeth clench until his jaw is a fraction away of breaking, the message puncturing inside him with medical precision. 

These are the words. This is why Aziraphale won't even look at him half the time. He has chosen a human and the thought makes Crowley dizzy. This is why he's just nothing but a speck in the angel's new life. 

"I finally found it!"

Crowley hears Aziraphale's steps going up and he stumbles back. Aziraphale can't see him like this. He makes a hasty retreat through the back door and shoves himself in the Bentley, hearing a faint call of his name while he puts all his weight on the accelerator. 

While he makes ninety miles per hour to the town, he actually _prays_ not to run into Charles. That undeserving fucking arsehole. He needs alcohol. Lots and lots of it. He needs to try and yank Aziraphale out of his heart which probably won't happen today or soon or never. But he needs to try, and try and _try_. 

His breath is shallow, and his heart speeds along with the car. Behind his shades, he feels wetness prick at his lashes.

And everything because of a fucking human. 

But.

If Aziraphale could, so can he, Crowley thinks. 

And at the end he can't even blame the angel. He's a fucking demon.

Where's it written they deserve anything at all?

* * *

It's a seedy bar, damp and cold and dark enough that everybody there blurs into one solid mass. It reminds Crowley a bit of Hell which makes him feel at home in some sort of twisted way.

He plops on a barstool and opens a tab. 

_Fuck it._

"Bourbon. Neat. And keep them coming."

The bartender nods.

The music is loud enough to drown any coherent thought, pushing aside any resilient hurdle about what he intends to do.

He scans the place looking for a potential partner, but everytime he tries to picture himself snogging one of them, suddenly they all turn blond and donning tartan.

_Fuuuuuuck_. Not drunk enough.

Crowley's probably at his fifth glass, savoring the smooth feel of the drink on his tongue and the afterburn in his throat, not even half hour in when his phone vibrates against his thigh. He plucks it out.

_Unknown number._

Well, fuck them too. He's in no mood to answer telemarketers. Very insisting telemarketers judging for how long the buzz persists. And well, the economy, _yadda yadda_.

Then a single ping. A message. Crowley takes his phone out, ready to cannonball a curse to whoever it is, and looks at the screen. His jaw unhinges a little.

_Crowley, this is so unbecoming of you. At least you could've let me know you had plans before dinner was ready. Where are you?_

Crowley turns his own phone off for the night. 

He's about to quaff down his sixth glass of a bourbon that dwindles in quality every time a new one appears, when someone places a hand on his thigh. Crowley fights the impulse to dismember the human touching him, remembering he's radiating enough lust to lure an army of people. Right.

"Feeling lonely?" Says the man. Which isn't the most lame pick up line he's ever heard but lands close. He has brown hair and hazel eyes and it's decent looking.

"Yeah, I suppose," Crowley rasps absentmindedly, and he can see the sod visibly shaken by his voice. "Care to do something about it?" 

"Of course," the man says, his hand going up Crowley's thigh. "You know? I was back there when I saw you and I just said to myself, Greg, you need to go there and buy that lovely redhead a drink. So, here I am."

Crowley rolls his eyes at _lovely_. He can smell the need reeking from the bastard. "Yeah, see, I'm covered in the drink departament, but maybe you can help me with other things."

The pillock has the decency to look shocked, as if he wasn't aiming to score. "Like-- like what?"

"Sex, Giles, sex."

"Greg."

"Whatever. Care to give it a try?"

Crowley stands. If he keeps thinking about it, he knows he's going to regret it. It's wrong. It _feels_ wrong. Yet the yawning chasm at the pit of his stomach when he dredges up the memory of a soft face and blond curls, weighs more. That and the bottle of bourbon currently filling his veins.

"You coming or what?"

The man scrambles to follow him and Crowley revels in his stunned expression. Almost as if he couldn't believe he was about to score so out of his league. 

They stumble into a secluded part of the bar and as soon as they are out of sight the man slams Crowley against the wall. 

"You're gorgeous, you know that?" The man slots his mouth in Crowley's, giving him no time to bemoan crushed hopes.

He tastes of tobacco and cheap whisky. A pang of disappointment rattles Crowley when he realizes he has been expecting something entirely different. More like cinnamon and tea and Châteauneuf-du-Pape. 

It's too late now. 

The man's tongue pushes inside Crowley's mouth and he closes his eyes trying to block the feeling. His hands are busy grabbing Crowley's ass, while the demon starts counting bricks on the naked wall behind them. It isn't gentle nor loving nor the hundred other things Crowley has always yearned but never got. 

"Can't wait to fuck you, luv, you're beautiful, just-- _divine_ ," the man whispers against Crowley's skin, lips sucking now the line of Crowley's neck.

He hates how good it feels. To be wanted, to feel touches burning with need. Of him. To be worthy of praises. To be the unattainable one for once. 

Crowley's head tilts back, hitting against the wall, his hands clinging to Greg's shoulders, playing his part. The man wedges a leg between Crowley's and his erection rubs against Crowley's tight jeans. 

"Well," Crowley says palming the man's dick, tongue licking the outer shell of his ear, "let's fuck then, shall we?" 

"Get your hands off him.” 

Crowley whips his head around and stares at Aziraphale, tartan bowtie, cream coat and an iPhone in hand standing right next to them. His voice is drained of his usual polite manners. It's halting, cold, low and dark.

"Sorry mate," Greg says, hands on Crowley's hips. "We're busy here, sod off."

"I believe I said,” he says, “get your hands off him."

A shiver wrecks Crowley's spine. He has never seen Aziraphale like this; face hard as steel, voice grating with red hot anger. More Principality of the Eastern Gate and less Victorian book dealer. He can feel the angelic rage drenching the whole place. _What is he mad about?_

"Are you deaf? This one's taken. Go fetch another."

Crowley has to give it to the human. He's showing some balls, the ones that are still inconspicuously in Crowley's hand, facing an angel that could snap his neck like a twig. 

"Oh," Aziraphale says, voice clipped. "I think rather not."

He reaches a hand and lifts the man by the collar as if he was as heavy as a cat, and tosses him to the floor behind him.

" _What the fuck_ , Aziraphale?"

"You know this tosser?" Comes Greg's indignant yelp.

"I think it'd be best if you leave," Aziraphale says to the heap behind him, apparently calm but Crowley sees the iPhone crushed in his hand. 

Showing his working braincell, and probably sensing Aziraphale is quite more than a librarian look-alike, the man makes a hasty retreat.

Aziraphale grips Crowley by the elbow and guides him out of the bar. It surprises Crowley that as rough as he was with the stranger, Aziraphale's touch feels gentle on him, longing burning him with each holy digit pressed on his arm.

Crowley feels his heart pounding louder than the thrumming bass of the music, to the point he doubts Aziraphale hasn't heard it by now. 

Aziraphale is silent until they reach the Bentley. "You never replied-- I was worried about you, Crowley!"

"Yeah, well, found me. Good for you," Crowley huffs, feigning indignation. "What do you want, Aziraphale? I was having a bloody good time."

For a moment Aziraphale's jaw tenses, eyes glimmering with anger that strikes Crowley like a punch.

"So this is where you had to run so urgently you couldn't even bother to let me know?" Aziraphale asks icily. "Not even a text message?"

"Told you. Having fun." Crowley crosses his arms over his chest. "Is this because the bloody ossobuco got tossed to the bin? Well, I'm sorry. I had plans and forgot to tell you. There, you have it. Now I'll go back and you can go home," Crowley says, full of bravado. 

"We had plans, Crowley!"

"What? To eat and drink in silence and then spend the rest of the fucking night looking at the ceiling in our rooms? Those plans? Yeah, well, hard pass."

Aziraphale recoils an inch as if someone had spat at him, his face marred by a frown. "I thought-- I told you I wanted to have a word with you and-- was this more important?"

"Er, let me think. Yes!" Crowley scoffs. "Sorry to break it to you, but yes. Yes, it is. I need more, Aziraphale."

"And do you think that a dastardly human can give you that?" Aziraphale's face darkens, the iPhone still in his hand, now outright bent. "You're sorely mistaken, dear."

"Oh, that's rich coming from you."

Aziraphale's brows shot up. "I beg your pardon?"

"You know bloody well what I mean."

"I assure you, Crowley, I'm at a loss here."

Crowley's throat feels constricted. All sort of emotions queueing up ready to burst.

"I saw the message of your friend, what's his name? Charles isn't it? Such a good friend he is."

"I yet fail to see--"

"C'mon Aziraphale, stop. Just stop," Crowley snaps. "I know that after six thousand years you chose a human and that's fine, it's your life, whatever. Don’t need to tell me but-- Don't come here with all that holier-than-thou act to tell me what to do or who to fuck."

Aziraphale pauses and splutters before Crowley can get something in blank. "You think Charles and I?"

"Yeah! I saw it, _sweetheart_ ," Crowley says pointedly. 

Aziraphale flinches seeming horrified. "Crowley that's not-- he's married! I would never! He's the town's historian and I helped him with some Regency lore. Nothing more."

"He was talking about taking you to dinner." _That's supposed to be me, that's supposed to be my job_ , _and no one else's_. "Just like last time, he said."

"Yes, a lovely dinner we had along with his husband," Aziraphale says and Crowley starts to feel his certainties challenged. "I would've taken you with me, I wanted to, but you've been avoiding me like the plague. Do not deny it!"

Crowley's blood surges to his cheeks in outrage. " _I_ 've been avoiding you? You can't even look at me in the face. You flinch everytime I touch you!" He shouts, because Aziraphale has no right to take his anger from him with his logic and his reasons. Because if there's no one else, then that means is Crowley the error, the unfitting. The undeserving. "Do you have any idea how much that hurts?"

"That is not true! You’re the one that has been acting terribly odd since we moved here and I thought-- I thought you wanted space. That I was somehow inconveniencing you."

Crowley's stomach tugs in an unbefitting way. Aziraphale is staring at the pavement and that makes Crowley feel like an utter twat. 

"You should've seen your face every time I walked into a room and you were there," Aziraphale says softly. "I was too afraid to upset you, and I couldn’t say-- much as I would've liked to tell you--"

"What, Aziraphale?"

The angel pins him with those blue, bright eyes and Crowley's breath catches in his chest in the span of seconds that feel like hours.

"To tell you _I love you."_

There's a buzz in Crowley's ears, a high pitch as if he had gone suddenly deaf. A warmth that has nothing to do with the weather creeps up his skin.

"M' sorry?"

"I love you. I've been in love with you for the longest time and I was waiting for-- I told to myself, today was going to be the day and I-- I thought you felt as I did, but perhaps-- perhaps--" Aziraphale trails off and Crowley dreads for another wave of worn-out silence spreading vast between them. His useless heart has gone absolutely out of rhythm, his insides twisting like knotted ribbons. "Please don't ask me to stay here, and be calm when I see you clinging to arms that are not mine. Seeking lips that are not mine, looking for someone that's not me." Aziraphale sighs. "Do not request that from me or I'll might go mad."

Crowley takes a step forward, hands shaking. "You love _me_." He likes how it rolls in his tongue, how it buzzes in his marrow. Crowley smiles with joy he hasn't felt in millenia; not since he walked away from a wall with the memory of downy feathers over him.

"Yes, dear, I do."

_Then, then..._

"Oh _fuck_."

"It's fine, dearest." Aziraphale's lips tremble, the wrinkles around his eyes multiplying in a hundred as he winces. "I'm sorry I-- I'm terribly sorry for what I did. I know I had no right. I understand--"

Idiots. Idiots and fools the both of them. 

"Shut up, angel. Shut up and kiss me," Crowley demands. 

"But--"

"That wanker doesn't mean anything to me, angel," Crowley says briskly and pleading, all in one. "I was trying to forget-- to forget--"

Aziraphale's expression finally changes, lighting up from mouth to eyes. 

"Oh, Crowley, I'm so sorry! There's nothing to forget. I've never loved anyone but you. No one means more to me than you, dear. No one at all."

Aziraphale thumbs the sharp outline of Crowley's jaw and Crowley heaves a shuddery sigh, cheeks hot and flushed. He's not a fair maiden, _he's not,_ yet the care and softness of Aziraphale's touch is enough to send him reeling. He basks, unmoored and adrift, in the pleasantness of Aziraphale's slightly rough hand.

"Oh _lord_." Crowley presses himself whole to Aziraphale's body, tossing to the wind caution and warn signs. "I love you, angel. I've always have."

And then Aziraphale presses a damp, perfect mouth to Crowley's, the contact making him broil in his skin and Aziraphale's taste floods him until all other flavors are just memories. The angel's tongue licks just where Crowley's lips are barely parting and he chokes on a moan because he's not prepared at all to the rush of heat swatting at him. His own breath is harsh in his ears, and Aziraphale is close, so close and over him, his scent drilling through Crowley's brain: sharp and clean and good, _god, so good_. 

"I've-- I've wanted to kiss you for so long, dear Lord, so long," Aziraphale whispers, one hand cradling Crowley's head, pulling him closer with the other by the waist with a possessive grip that almost breaks Crowley apart. 

Crowley's trembling, inarticulate sounds escaping him as full answers that Aziraphale seems to understand well enough. Need, thick and heady, arrows through him and Crowley's head spins thinking about exactly what he's doing. Who's that warm pressure on his mouth.

His hands tug at Aziraphale's lapels to steady because the noises coming from Aziraphale are absurdly arousing. They do things to Crowley, things that are about to get unleashed in the middle of the fucking road if the angel keep pressing the front of his ridiculous trousers against him.

Crowley whimpers when Aziraphale sucks his bottom lip into his mouth, searing heat roiling in his belly and oh, oh _fuck_. His own cock twitches in his pants.

He's dizzy and hard and Aziraphale's thigh, rubbing him just right there, is not making things easier. 

"Angel-- angel-- "

It's a plea, a pathetic one at that because Crowley refuses to see everything finishing in a messy puddle in his pants, and _Satan, that'd be awful_. 

Aziraphale stops and for a moment Crowley freezes when the angel looks down. 

"Oh. Oh, dear." Slowly, Aziraphale angles his leg between Crowley's own and a smile that's partly predatory flares on his face. "Much as I’d love to ravish you here, darling, this is not what I had in mind for our first time," he pants. 

_What I had in mind_. 

"What- what do you suggest?" Crowley rasps, shaking off the idea of Aziraphale, cock in hand, warbling Crowley's name, thinking about him, alone in his bed. _No, no, no, no_. He doesn't want this to end so soon. 

"I can miracle us back at the cottage, but your Bentley will have to stay behind," Aziraphale says. "It'd be too obvious." 

"Do it."

"Really?"

"Do it, angel, no one will touch it."

Crowley feels like falling on a haze of time for a second before finding himself at the cottage again. In Aziraphale's room and hedged in Aziraphale's arms. Strong arms that have Crowley wanting to be bent and fucked, and used by Aziraphale for ages to come. 

Aziraphale burrows a kiss in Crowley's neck, along with something that sounds like _I want you,_ rendering Crowley's brain to mush.

"Angel, you're going to be the death of me," he says breathlessly.

Aziraphale reaches a hand and takes off his shades placing them neatly on his nightstand and Crowley feels terribly exposed already.

"That's better," Aziraphale says with a smile.

They seek each other again, kissing with abandon, a busy riot of hands and clothes, buttons and skin on skin. _Finally_. Aziraphale gives him a little push and Crowley plops on a bed with a tartan duvet. This. This right here is where he belongs. 

"You're beautiful, darling. Exquisite." Aziraphale kneels in front of him and spreads Crowley's legs apart with a very determined hand. And Crowley can't do nothing but moan, like a helpless wanton. "You deserve to be worshipped."

"Mmrf."

"May I?" Aziraphale asks, calm, composed as if he wasn't seconds away to having a mouthful of Crowley's cock.

Crowley nods. "Ngh."

Aziraphale pulls his underwear down and out of the way and Crowley's cock springs free. The chill of the room makes his dick twitch before Aziraphale's hand wraps around the base.

"You have such a beautiful cock, Crowley," Aziraphale says. 

Crowley isn't even trying to answer, grunting and hissing, as he looks at Aziraphale, wedged between his legs, flushed and bare and willing to suck him dry. 

It's positively sinful.

Aziraphale pumps him one, twice, swiping with his thumb at the tip spreading the wetness gathered there. "Mmm, I think I'd like to have a taste of you, dear, can I?"

Crowley thinks he might go cross-eyed watching the angel looking up at him with lust blurring his gaze. 

"Yeah, sure, angel, anything you want." Crowley’s particularly proud of how steady his voice sounds. 

Aziraphale stows a kiss at the groove where thigh meets hip that Crowley feels amplified by a thousand, and flicks his tongue over the head of his cock. And then time stops in the hot, wet pressure of his mouth closing around Crowley's dick. Aziraphale groans and the waves tug a curse from Crowley's lips. _Satan's bollocks_ , he wants to buck up, to bury himself whole in that tight, wet heat but he's pinned. Too stunned by every little sensation to do anything but watch Aziraphale devouring his cock. 

"Aziraphale--" Crowley pleas in a shuddery exhale, brushing the angel’s pink cheek with gentle knuckles. 

He clutches a handful of duvet fighting the need to bury his fingers in Aziraphale's blond locks. _No, fuck, no_. He doesn't want to be rough. The angel's tongue glides along the ridges and veins of his cock, teasing the underside as he takes his entire length until his pert, little nose is practically buried in Crowley's rust-red pubes; the tip hitting the back of his throat. 

Crowley's head falls back. " _Fuck_."

Slowly, Aziraphale starts to work him up, licking him from root to tip, hand squeezing gently at the base. _He's good, shit, he's so good at this_ . Aziraphale reaches a plump hand to one of Crowley's own and guides him to the back of his head, so he weaves long, nimble fingers in those curls, gently drawing circles on his scalp and watches. The long, broad expanse of Aziraphale's shoulders, freckle-dusted skin going down his arms and chest; the curved line of the lashes resting on a soft cheek and those lips, swollen and red around him. He takes it all in, like an explorer on virgin lands. _He's beautiful_. His pulse skyrockets and his inner thighs start to quiver.

Crowley doesn't think he can go on much longer. A strained gasp escapes from him and Aziraphale hollows his cheeks, bobbing his head faster and messier. The sounds bouncing off the walls are decadent, a mix of moans and slurps and Crowley feels his balls tightening, the building pleasure ready to burst.

"Shit, ngk," Crowley manages, a shuddery jumble of words. "Shit, angel, I'm there-- I'm--"

Aziraphale gives a hard suck and Crowley's orgasm hits him like an astounding thump of blinding pleasure, knocking his brain off. He rides through it in Aziraphale's mouth, and tugs at his hair, despite himself, pushing the angel down on him, while Aziraphale swallows every bit of come, working him with his tongue as he does so.

Aziraphale doesn't let him go until Crowley stops squirming beneath him, his palms resting at the sides of his hips. When Aziraphale finally pulls back, Crowley beckons him closer to hold him, to preserve every bit of bliss safely between them.

"You taste divine, dear, I’d say even better than crêpes," Aziraphale says and bless him, his voice sounds absolutely hoarse. 

“Oh fuck, angel, really? Crêpes?"

"I find them quite delicious."

Aziraphale wiggles a bit and pulls Crowley against him, moving until they're both resting against the headboard. There's so much skin, pressing and brushing against whole swaths of Crowley's own. Aziraphale's hand draws circles on his thigh and goosebumps flare in response and Crowley is thankful for the angel's embrace or he may float away. The sparks of afterglow start to recede and slowly, Crowley's eyes land on Aziraphale's boxers, fabric straining with a noticeable bulge. 

"Hey, what about you?," Crowley asks, feeling his throat dry and his mouth watery, a whole set of contradictions fizzing inside him.

"What about me?"

"You didn't--" He waves at the obvious. 

"Ah, no, no, I didn't."

" _Why_?"

Aziraphale flushes again and Crowley sees the twitching inside his underwear. "Well, dear, I don't want to pressure you--"

"Pressure me? Angel, I've waited six bloody thousand years-- pressure me all you want-- shit, Aziraphale pressure is all I want," he exclaims. "Or is it that you don't want me?," he teases with a mischievous smile.

"Don't be absurd!" Aziraphale yelps, climbing atop him and Crowley feels their cocks pressing together. "I almost lost it when I saw that human all over you, his grubby hands soiling what's sacred. I very much want you, dear."

"Then take me, angel, fuck me." Crowley surges and licks a stripe following Aziraphale's collarbone. " _Please_."

"You are," Aziraphale says kissing him, "an impossible tease."

Crowley snaps and Aziraphale's boxers find their occult way to the chair in the corner. "It's only fair," he says grinning before gaping at Aziraphale's cock. Plump and long and wonderfully thick. Gorgeous as his owner.

"Look at that, talking about nice cocks," Crowley says and Satan, he needs it inside him, _now_.

Aziraphale flushes and crushes Crowley's mouth with his as a sole answer. Their cocks glide against each other as they grind, the duvet falling to the floor, until they hit the right angle and Crowley can't take it anymore. 

"Hold on," he whispers, seizing Aziraphale's jaw in his hand. "Let me."

He scrambles under Aziraphale's looming body and turns, in all fours.

"There. Now, please, angel."

"You have no idea what you do to me, dear," Aziraphale says in a husky whisper against Crowley's back.

Another snap and Crowley feels one thick finger, coated in lube, prodding at his entrance. Aziraphale pushes inside and Crowley moans at the stretch. It's something but it's not enough.

"More, angel, please--"

"Patience is a virtue, love."

"Yeah, well-- ngk-- demon."

Aziraphale slides another finger, now thrusting with both lazily, making Crowley growl in frustration. But before he can complain, he gasps at the intrusion of the third and, _fuck_ , Aziraphale curls them hitting just right _there_. 

"Ah, shit, angel, _ngh_."

"Relax, darling, shh," Aziraphale coos.

Crowley squirms feeling the warm weight of Aziraphale's body against him, his fingers working Crowley up, preparing him to take him. It feels like hours until Crowley feels his hole loose and impossibly wet, his elbows sore by the position.

And then Aziraphale pulls his fingers away and Crowley shudders with anticipation.

"Ready, dear?"

"Yes, fuck, angel, do it, do it, please."

Crowley feels the head of Aziraphale's cock slowly sliding inside him, inch by torturous inch, and he bites his lip to not cry out. Aziraphale gasps when he bottoms out. 

"Good lord, Crowley, you feel amazing."

Crowley stiffles a moan burying his head on a pillow and then Aziraphale starts moving. He feels wonderful inside Crowley, the drag burning slightly but not enough to damp the pleasure of it. 

One hand curls around Crowley's hip for leverage while the other quarters the hot blood flesh of his back. 

"Azira-- Aziraphale, _please_."

The angel pounds harder, smacking thigh against thigh and Crowley can't stop whimpering at every thrust. 

He wants to speak, to tell him the non stop blabber in his head: _fuck me, fuck me angel, harder, wreck me, claim me_ , _I'm yours._ But those are too many words and he's way past that. 

There's an indistinct sound filling the room over the snap of hips, garbled moans and squelching lewdness. Crowley strains his ear, realizing the angel is chanting his name. _Like a prayer_. 

Aziraphale leans, his chest against Crowley's arched back and reaches for Crowley's leaking cock.

"Come now, darling give me another."

He jerks him off, faster and faster until the press at his prostate and the pull at his cock, have him coming all over Aziraphale's hand. He plunders through his climax with Aziraphale now ramming against his ass, and Crowley sways, suspended in bliss.

Aziraphale presses dry kisses to his ear, to the nape of his neck, breaths laced with fervents _I love you_ , as his hips start to thrust faster, out of any rhythm.

"Crowley, oh God, Crowley I'm going to-- going to--"

Crowley feels him trying to stop, trying to still his movements and extends a hand back to clasp Aziraphale's thigh. 

"Fill me, angel," he rasps. "Come inside me."

Aziraphale gives a long, hard grind, pushing Crowley, face down on the mattress and comes with a grunt, minute thrusts marking his spurts. 

His fingers sink hard in Crowley's hips, probably breaking the skin but Crowley can't feel anything but the weight of Aziraphale's cock still inside him.

Finally, the angel relaxes and pulls out. He slings an arm around Crowley's waist and they both slump, next to each other over the crumpled sheets.

"Ngh," says Crowley.

"I believe the word you're looking for is _wahoo_."

"Damn right, you are."

Crowley turns on his side, a mess of come and lube between his thighs, and Aziraphale scoots closer behind him, chest against back, and arm tucking Crowley Even closer.

Crowley wants to stay here, in this very point of existence forever. For the first time in an immortal lifetime, he doesn't care about the hollow place left by her Grace, he doesn't care at all with the bright love of Aziraphale shining bright inside him.

A snap and a tartan duvet, clean and fresh, slides over them. 

"Let's state that this crime of fashion is only for tonight," Crowley says, turning his head to face Aziraphale.

The angel catches his lips, hand delicately grasping his jaw. "Of course dear, you can choose the shades of black you want for our bed."

_Our bed._

Crowley drifts to sleep safely in Aziraphale's arms. 

  
  
  



End file.
